Twenty-one minutes, according to Clive

Hello I’m Clive — everybody has a Clive, that little voice that rambles on and on inside all day. A Clive sees the world without a filter.

It looks like it might actually snow!

Anyways, I am Clive, your stream of consciousness. I am what would happen if you didn’t think and only wrote. But I really don’t want to read some of that, okay?

That Toyota that just drove by is in need of a bath. The gelato machine next to me is humming and humming like some sort of angry, electrically powered hornet. Or bee. A lady in blue cowboy boots brought her dog in the coffee shop. Are dogs really allowed in here? I think it’s funny that some people can’t really be without their pets. Not even for the amount of time it takes to pour a cup of coffee in a to go cup, pay, leave. At least this one isn’t wearing a sweater. A red sweater with four little armholes. What a silly concept, dressing pets with natural coats in clothes for cold weather.

Mmmm vanilla bean gelato. I don’t need any. I’m watching my figure.

But the mango looks so delicious…

The man over there has incredibly efficient voice projection. Even over the coffee shop lady washing dishes in the back, the music playing, the gelato machine, my own typing I can hear him talking: “Three thousand dollars from him… society in general… degree in journalism… meanest bitch I’ve ever known… anyways even with six grand in funding…”

It’s so gray outside. When is spring coming?

A huge picture of a vintage truck is on the wall — it’s bright orange, in the way that oranges are bright orange, and safety vests are orange and the happy little flowers beneath the picture are orange.

Happy. There’s a word for you. What does it mean: happy?

Thunder, especially the obnoxiously loud kind, especially the kind you can feel in the walls and your bones.

Grass between the toes, unless it’s muddy wet and then little pieces of dirt get stuck there, too.

Coasting downhill on a bike, preferably in the summer, maybe with just shorts and a tank top on. And flip flops, even though if you crashed your feet wouldn’t be so happy anymore.

A ceramic cup clinking on a counter. The slosh of coffee in the cup. The steam that rises from the coffee in the cup.

A big hug — the kind where your face gets squished into someone’s chest and you could be anywhere because you have to close your eyes anyways.

High heel shoes, because wearing them means that there is no snow because it’s impossible to walk in high heels in snow.

Really good bread that’s fresh, soft inside like velvet but crunchy on the outside almost like a thick potato chip.

Chocolate, really dark and rich with a hint of mint.

Getting off an airplane in a new place after a long flight. The crinkled feeling in your knees from being inside too long and the first breath of new air outside the stuffy airport.

Smelling flowers, especially outside and especially lilacs.

Publishing something that other people might read.

The man with the loud voice has gotten up, and he’s looking very sure of himself. He was talking with a woman and it seems from their body language that they’re into each other. They lean in the same direction, cross their arms the same way. They stare too long at each other. But they’re not together. Or if they are, it’s not been long. They’re not easy like that.

“I live right across the way,” she said.

The cash register clings, pennies or quarters or something are added. Paper is straightened out.

“It’s actually been an interesting life lesson,” he says. They are lingering.

A younger guy walks in the door, which swings briskly and bounces on its frame. His pants are so low he must walk with his legs splayed out. This creates a strange, jerky rocking motion when he walks. His lanky frame is hidden by a randomly color-splashed jacket he must have stolen off an obese, colorblind person. He can’t hear anything the girl behind the counter says because his earphones are still in.

A lone bird flies by outside, in a low, joyful arc.

What makes you happy? Clive wants to know.

Lately, I’ve been doused with a healthy dash of writer’s block. This article is my attempt at dislodging the black — I tried some stream of consciousness writing, with Clive as my catalyst. But if you’d like, you can still tell me what makes you happy… Clive and I are both curious. And your responses might be included in a future article about happiness… hint. hint, nudge, nudge…